


i won’t take it back

by slowshow



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Angst, F/F, I might add a chapter, i don’t believe in happy endings anymore lol sorry, or two, zadison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 21:21:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17711792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowshow/pseuds/slowshow
Summary: For Zoe to see her—really, see her— that’s when Madison felt she’d truly die.





	i won’t take it back

**Author's Note:**

> In short, this takes place right after Kyle learns how to read/proclaims his love for Zoe. But since I must go off on tangents, I’ll say I really believe something along these lines should have happened during that ep, or in the ep following. Madison’s anger is consistent but it’s never fully explained (lol @ ryan). So this is my attempt at painting how she deals with that anger, (or how she doesn’t deal with it) and where I think it might stem from. Additionally, I don’t know that it’s abundantly clear, but this entire fic takes place in the hospital where Nan and the girls visit Luke. In the series it’s made clear that Madison hates hospitals. I know she hates broadly, but I figured I could go off of that specific hatred? Thank you for reading xx

i tell you the truth,  
you tell it to me too,  
i know i need you,  
you know that we are through

—glow, porches

x

If she’s startled by Zoe’s voice, how it penetrates the silence of Luke’s hospital room, she doesn't show it.

“Madison?” Zoe says, her gaze turning a little pitying when the other girl finally meets her eyes, because it’s clear that Madison’s trying—really trying—to keep from blowing chunks all over the off-white tile.

Fear pierces its way into her stomach, memories of a childhood spent in hospital beds plaguing her thoughts. Her heart murmur was worse in winter, always worse in winter. And yeah, she had fucking died, her heart all but dead weight, but it remembers. She remembers. 

She’s out of the room before she can venture to respond, swiftly slipping out of the confined space and into a hall with harsh lighting. Curse this place and it’s white walls that seem to shriek at her. Not that it’s anything she isn’t used to, it would just be really fucking great if the inside of this place didn’t resemble an asylum. Which, she realizes is too much to ask for (realizes she shouldn’t ask anyone for anything, ever probably) because as she turns yet another corner she feels a collection of fingers wrap over her wrist, warm to the touch, trapping her.

She knows it’s Zoe, knows she was followed out of Luke’s room, doesn’t know why the girl acts like she gives a shit about her, doesn’t know why Zoe takes action, always takes action, for it’s something Madison has never excelled at. She’s always needed a push, a pull, a narcotic of some sort to get her by, to get her through, or just —fucking— out. 

It was just a day before that she’d overheard Kyle’s admission of love for Zoe, prompting that ball of pent-up emotion in Madison’s gut to unravel entirely. And maybe that’s what’s threatening to erupt and spill over now. Maybe she’ll never understand why this place triggers her, after all this time. For fucks sake, she died. You’d think some of this trauma might have died along with her. Still, she can’t tally why she’s suddenly feeling so intensely. 

The eavesdropping had happened organically. Madison always played in the shadows; as a child, growing up and even now, despite her career. A background character she had been assigned up until she signed her first acting contract, and even then, her big break didn’t come for years. And when the spotlight found her, it was only worse, for she never knew how to be anything but a cultivation (a survival tactic)— a bitch— really, something that gnashed and gnawed and scared everyone and every thing away.

She thought, god she hoped, at times she even prayed (what a shit show that was) for something to stick. 

What’s ironic somehow, is that Zoe, of all people, starts sticking. 

And somehow it’s worse, because Madison, deep down (although it’s really bubbling up now, isn’t it) understands why Kyle’s admission hurt her, apprehended long ago why Zoe’s response hurt so much more. 

And now that she’s got it—a someone that finally wants to run after her, a someone whom asks questions and waits on an answer even if they’re certain it won’t ever come—she’s more terrified than ever before.

And the nauseatingly thin, filtered hospital air isn’t helping.

But of all the questions bludgeoning her ego, her self-reliance, the most obnoxious was why the hand wrapped over her wrist did nothing but soothe her.

“Madison.”

Madison whips her head around, her features hardening with perfected ease.

“Jesus, what?”

There’s an odd little twist to Zoe’s mouth, but she doesn’t look surprised by Madison’s irritated response. Instead she gives her a long, lingering look, and it seems she’s taking a submissive approach (as usual) because instead of biting back, she asks, “Where are you going?”

“A smoke break.” A beat. “Wanna’ alert the media?”

“Madison.” Zoe tries again, and it feels like a full minute before she continues, “You were crying.”

She doesn’t hear it. Not really. Sure, it meets her ears but it doesn’t register. Not when Zoe’s looking at her like that, and surely not before scanning the place for any trace of escape.

“I just need a cigarette,” she mutters quickly, her eyes raking over a door marked as an emergency exit not far behind Zoe’s head. 

Seconds later, she’s making a bee-line for it. Fear lances through her as she pushes her way through the doorway and begins climbing the cemented stairwell. She counts the steps in her head as her feet patter over them, trying to maintain composure because she‘s certain Zoe’s following her. 

It’s instinctual, this need to protect herself, to project falsely so that there’s enough room between her and anything else that scares her. She made sure there was enough room between her and her asshole father, even more room between her and her leech of a mother. Now, the room she requires is between her and Zoe.

This need was purely instinctual until it became habitual, then compulsive, and consuming. It was the thing that ate away at her until there was very little left. She had to be murdered to get that. But at the end of the day, it’s all she freaking knows. So she halts, her fists balling up like a child, always a child. Always small. 

And yeah, Zoe’s there, trailing after her tamely like it’s just another Friday at Hogwarts, even though she can feel something brimming, something stirring between the pair of them.

And as an absolute last resort, Madison reaches for her purse, retrieving her cigarette case. She then reaches into the main slit of her purse, fingering the lighter until she’s got her thumb on the spark wheel. 

She takes one in her mouth, lights it quickly before taking a long drag, and tilts her head back, casually glancing at Zoe. 

She’s counting on a general look of disdain from the other girl, on a exasperated sigh, a “fine, have it your way,” (something her mom used routinely) or anything of the sort.

Instead, what she gets is Zoe’s careful tone, concern painted big in her eyes when she asks, “What is it?” Then, “Don’t answer that if you’re gonna be a bitch about it. You were crying, Madison. There’s something wrong, and you didn’t start looking like that until we got into Luke’s room. I’m just asking you, I’m not attacking you. Normal people talk about things,” she takes a step forward so that she’s a stone’s throw away from Madison, who has now taken to leaning on the railing, “And sometimes, people talk to each other about what’s bothering them, believe it or not.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

If only to attempt to regain the upper hand, Madison lets out a short, defensive laugh. “Why do you care?” 

“Because I notice things. I notice you.”

“Yeah,” Madison clips, heart racing, and turns away. And her hand is knuckle deep in her purse again, if only to busy her shaking hands, before she realizes Zoe’s approaching her. 

As Zoe reaches to pull the cigarette out from Madison’s mouth, Madison doesn’t really move. Her back is against the damn rail and she’s pretty certain if she did move the other girl would just trap her again, still swiping her cigarette. And she’ll be honest, the closeness is something they tend to do these days—their shoulders pressing closely together on their little witch expeditions or whatever—which Madison doesn’t mind, not at all actually, but this? She’s bothered by it, mainly because Zoe then tosses the fag and puts it out. Which, Madison isn’t expecting at all. 

“The fuck,” She exhales harshly at Zoe’s audacity.

“Madison,” Zoe starts, confident, “you don’t care about Kyle, do you?” Her eyes briefly trace over the scar marring the shorter girls neck. Zoe is hesitant when she continues, “You never did.”

“Get out of my face.” 

“My god. Can you stop, for once?”

“I’ll do what I want,” she affirms, all too aware of Zoe’s height, her acute lack of it, at the moment, then, “stop caring so much.”

“That’s-“ Zoe struggles to retort, “that’s not something you say to people,” A beat. “Especially when they care. Don’t you know that?” 

She’s doesn’t voice a reply, because what’s the freaking point if this is the part where Zoe walks away and leaves her to sit with all of this? Madison can already envision Zoe treading down the stairs, disappearing into stark hallways and slipping into Luke’s room again. She can feel how she’ll miss her warmth. Because ever since Madison’s little incident with death, she’s colder than ever. More alone than ever.

“Prove it.”

Amazement coats Zoe’s features, but she maintains Madison’s gaze, her expression fighting to remain somewhat composed, as if in direct retort to the shorter girls impatient tone.

It feels good. It feels freaking good to surprise Zoe for once. There, that’s honest.

When the taller girl doesn’t move, a question swimming in her eyes, Madison takes the initiative and moves forward, taking Zoe’s mouth in a biting kiss. 

Zoe’s hesitant to receive it at first, her mouth barely moving against Madison’s. And for a moment the shorter girl regrets it,— how could she ever entertain that Zoe would be receptive to a make out session in the ICU stairwell, Jesus christ— and hates herself hard, until Zoe moves closer, enough so that Madison is flush against the railing, enough so that it’s portuding into her lower back. Arousal burns low in Madison’s stomach, dismissing every lingering thought that doesn’t involve how Zoe’s fingers are currently spreading themselves out over her waist, finding the dip in her back. Madison, siding with her better judgment, keeps her hands wrapped over the railing, waits patiently as Zoe pulls back for all of three seconds as if to approve of Madison’s mouth by regarding it thoughtfully. Then, Zoe is kissing her back, trying for closemouthed and soft despite Madison’s fervor, their noses bumping together. The taller witch wraps her hand around Madison’s jaw, an attempt to tame the kiss, an attempt to savor whatever this is. The touch rips and sutures and sates, and Madison can’t quite recall ever feeling so good—so warm and right—in all her life. She quickly gives into the feeling, allowing Zoe to hold her face as she kisses her slowly, thoroughly, like Zoe did everything. It’s affective. And Zoe’s so freaking attentive it hurts Madison—she’s never had that—so much so that she can’t help but react. When Madison’s throat jumps with soft noises of approval, Zoe’s exhale is just a hint desperate, and she’s sighing through her nose and into their shared air. It’s not a moan, but it’s a near thing. And Madison finds it difficult to not groan at the damn satisfaction of that—her hands coming up to touch Zoe’s chest—of the way their chests are so closely pressed together, the way their heartbeats are rapidly syncing . 

It’s not a wonder that such a feeling is torn away from her just as it begins, and when Zoe pulls away, a flicker of guilt and panic in her eyes and says, “I can’t,” stutters, “Kyle, he—“

Madison just nods, the pain evident in her eyes, anger evident in the way the little muscle in her jaw jumps as she clenches it. She knows this was stupid. Knows nothing is hers. Nothing good, anyhow.

“He loves you. And you love him. Right?”

It’s said with such malice that Zoe just stares blankly, doesn’t even nod in leu of voicing a reply. 

She just stares.

Madison finds it easy to push her off. And she doesn’t look back as she makes her way back down the stairs, her purse clutched loosely beneath shaking fingers.

She had learned with time, how to recover from an insult from Zoe. All her insults were made up of truths, and it was difficult at first, finding ways to curse Zoe when all she did was just that: tell the truth. All Madison ever did was fight it. She vowed to never give in, to never wane at such a threatening fate: the facing of truth. For Zoe to see her—really, see her— that’s when Madison felt she’d really die.

She figures that death is now, figures that, at some point down the line she’d grow so tired, so worn down that she could no longer protect herself from it, especially not when Zoe was so intent on lending it to her.

And it’s really shitty, isn’t it—really cold and dark and not unlike anything else she’s ever known—dying once and then again. 

At least her fate is consistent. At least, she thinks, as she lights up another cigarette, she can smoke in peace (not that she’s sure she’s ever felt true peace) as she walks home, back to her shitty bed, her shitty room, shitty routine. At least she can unravel alone, and not in front of a someone. A someone who lives to ask you questions but doesn’t like your answers. Because what a freaking monumental waste of time that was. 

At least she can finally say she’s tried.


End file.
